


A darkness we had no words for

by Blanquette



Category: Monsta X (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Forests, Gods, M/M, Magic, Melancholy, Old Gods, One Shot, Paganism, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: Yoongi often visits an abandoned shrine to play the piano. One day, the melody awakens a sleeping deity.





	A darkness we had no words for

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/ratedtopki/status/1072482097338683394) by [@ratedtopki](https://twitter.com/ratedtopki) someone sent me on my [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/Blanq).  
> This was very peaceful to write and I hope some of that can reach you guys.  
> I also hope I did justice to this fantastic prompt. I wanted to make Kihyun all dark and edgy and well, I failed.

**1.**

The shrine, Yoongi finds almost by mistake.

He’s running again, from what he isn’t too sure. Voices become too loud, sometimes, too-heavy words he doesn’t want to hear falling on his flayed ears, cobwebs in his lungs making it hard to breath as he sits, holding a lifeless hand in a deserted room. He closes his eyes then, for something longer than a blink; his thoughts melt under the harsh light of white corridors, sounds echoing in his empty mind and it hurts, hurts his head and the fingernails he drives into his palms.

And so he runs, far from the light and the noise and the cold touches of the dying. He finds shelter on forgotten paths, the ones winding through the forest of white pines rooting in the hard soil of the mountain range against which the city nestles. The tall trees hide him from the light, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the carpet of needles he treads on. He can breathe again, the wind chasing the cobwebs of his lungs; when a light rain falls he raises his face to the canopy overhead, closing his eyes, and he waits until the shower puts out the fire burning on his skin.

Yoongi walks until it is too dark to see, and strangely he never gets lost, the path always winding back the way he came. The lights of the city shine below, doting the night of so many spurious stars, and he stares until his vision blurs.

 

**2.**

Yoongi finds the shrine almost by mistake, on another escape through the woods after too heavy words cut his ears and his heart, crescents on his palms and thorns between his ribs. The forest smells of resin and something deeper still, something old, decaying earth waiting for new life. Remnants of the morning mist cling to the trees like the shrouds of the dead and Yoongi treads carefully on this path of needles; something is sleeping there that he does not wish to disturb.

The path he chooses doesn’t wind, this time, the road is straight, bordered by ferns and sweet woodruffs that catch on his clothes as he passes. The forest grows darker around him, older, too, thick trees twisting towards unseen skies. Some wear belts of faded colors, red, blue and yellow cloths wound around their trunks, withered by time. Yoongi pauses sometimes, pushing his palm flat against the bark of the nearest pine and it seems that he can feel it breathing against his skin.

When he comes to a fork in the road, one way winding down towards what he knows is the way back, the other going upward still, Yoongi hesitates but a second. The path he takes is old, almost disappearing under fallen pine needles and patches of grass. Under the ferns that edge it he finds little stone towers, rocks stacked on top of one another and he wonders if the wishes they represent came true. Some have crumbled and maybe he should put them back, but he knows they are not his to meddle with and so he pursues the path, treading carefully, up and up between the trees.

The road brings him to a small ravine in the mountain and Yoongi stays standing amongst the ferns and the woodruffs as he finally sees it; a shrine, old and crumbling, built over a stone bridge spanning the ravine, wood and stone spouting there as if the mountain birthed it itself. Yoongi takes a step and another, stopping again as he nears the building. All is quiet around him, a soft breeze tangling in his hair as he stares, unable to gaze away from the soft slopes of the roof and the wooden columns of the gallery. The mountain showed him a secret, he knows, something old and forgotten, and the last steps he takes are slow and careful, his head bowed as he crosses the threshold.

The inside smells of dust and time, gentle light filtering through the cracked wooden panels of the windows. The shrine is simple, a small square room where an altar stands, for long devoid of offerings. Yoongi stands before it, staring into the eyes of the stone statue of a fox. Something gentle unfurls in his chest, then, a peace such like he hasn’t felt for a long time. He closes his eyes, breathing in the dust and the light in this place forgotten by time, addressing silent thanks to the forest for bringing him here.

There is a small staircase behind the painted screens of the altar, something akin more to a ladder than real steps, and Yoongi hesitates before climbing but the wood is sturdy under his feet. The room upstairs is even smaller; a study room, maybe, somewhere to meditate, old books he cannot decipher the titles of lining its walls. Strangely still, at the far end, stands a piano. Yoongi stares for a long time, wondering if it is allowed, but curiosity is stronger and he takes the few steps that separates him from the instrument. A cloud of dust rises as he lifts the fallboard, but the ivory keys underneath almost shine, strikingly white in the dim light of the room.

Yoongi strikes one key, then the other, and strangely, the piano is perfectly in tune. He sits, then, a pinch of excitement in his chest, and lets his feelings rise.

It has been some time, since he hasn’t played. Never the right time, never the right state of mind, too many thoughts whirring in his clouded brain; but here, here it is different. The peace he felt before the altar seeped into his being, and his fingers find the keys without the license of his mind, a melody rising where only silence dwelled. Something simple, something deeply melancholic, and Yoongi speaks of escape and longing for a place that doesn’t exist.

He plays for a long time, hours, maybe, and when he finds his way back the factitious stars of the city already shine in the dead of night.

 

**3.**

Yoongi misses it quickly, the peaceful solitude of the forgotten shrine. A longing that anchors deep in his chest, and at first he fears he won’t be able to find the way back. But he lets the forest guide him and it is still there, the fork in the woods, the stone towers of wishes bordering the path, and the shrine, spanning its ravine.

He always bows before the altar and its stone fox as he comes in, remaining there a few moments, letting the peace of the place seep into him before he carries it to the piano and lets the ivory keys put his feelings into gentle sounds, ephemeral melodies only the forest hears. In these moments, he is truly himself, a bit sad, a bit lonely, but free as the notes that rise from the piano, free and beautiful.

The next time he comes he puts little bellflowers on the altar, and after that it’s pinecones, a book he liked to read, a bottle of rice wine, oranges and a funnily shaped leaf he found on the way up. He starts saying little prayers, too, talks of his hopes and hardships, a few minutes at a time, bowing before the stone fox. And then he travels up the ladder, to the room full of books, and lets his mind wander over the ivory keys of the piano. 

But then, then something changes. As life spills back into this forgotten place housing only the memories of the dead, something stirs. Yoongi’s wistful notes reach something in the realm between this life and the next, and the void takes shape, scattered forces bound together again, something old and knowing dragged out of a death-like sleep. And the thing, the thing listens.

 

**4.**

There is no more stone fox sitting on the altar. Yoongi stares, eyes wide, and something icy drives through his chest at the idea that someone else than him stepped here, and defiled his refuge. He cannot put the feeling of loss into words, and the violet flowers he held in his hand fall to the floor without a sound. Nothing else seems out of place, as he wanders around the room, fingers fleeting over the smooth wood of the walls. The room upstairs is still the same, not a book missing even though he couldn’t possibly know, but somehow Yoongi’s sure that the room is whole.

He sits at the piano bench, the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders, and the melody he draws from the instrument does not soar like it should, dragging near the floor instead, something of loss and ruin.

“Why does it always sound so sad?”

Yoongi jumps, a broken note fleeing from the piano, turning towards the voice almost violently. He was sure to be alone, yet there is a man, standing in the darkest corner of the room. Silver hair falling softly on golden skin, almond eyes almost feline, and a smile, made slightly predatory by the sharpness of the white teeth.

“What– Who the fuck are you?”

“I did not think you would be so rude.”

“Are you the one who stole the stone fox?”

The man laughs, something strangely delighted, but the fear in Yoongi doesn’t subside. This man is too strange, too out-of-place in his dark suit and ethereal beauty.

“No, I did not. No one did.”

“Where is it, then?”

The man tilts his head, considering Yoongi with his strange gaze, and Yoongi notices for the first time that the white of his eyes is entirely black, silver irises shining in a pool of darkness. The full moon at night, Yoongi thinks, and he is slightly enthralled, until the man speaks again, melodious voice breaking through his thoughts.

“I liked the book.”

“What?”

“The book you left. Facts about the moon? I liked it.”

“You… What, you read it? Do you live here or something?”

That smile again, pointy teeth bringing a shiver that runs through Yoongi, buried instincts of flight curling against his spine.

“I used to. When people still visited here, and prayed and hoped and talked endlessly, burning incense. But slowly they disappeared and I was lost, sleeping, for a long time. Until you came, and you played on the old piano, and you prayed and hoped and talked, giving me books and flowers. So I followed the notes through the void, and I was awakened.”

Yoongi stares, lightheaded, and somehow he knows that the man is telling the truth. With his dark eyes and silver hair, light catching on the jewelry hanging from his ears. There is no lying, in a place like this.

“You’re… You’re the fox? You’re the stone fox.”

The man nods and moves out of the dark, almost languidly, to lower himself into an old armchair flanked by crumbling bookshelves. Still he looks regal, a lost prince surveying his fallen kingdom.

“What– what should I call you?”

“I have many names.”

Yoongi sits down too, on the piano bench, his legs no longer having the will to support him.

“Will you play something?”

“I–”

There is something swirling in the moons of the fox’s eyes, something like longing and hope, and so Yoongi nods, turning towards the piano to put his fingers over the keys. He closes his eyes, thinking of the forest beyond, protecting a forgotten deity while it slept, while its followers disappeared and its kingdom fell to ruin.

The god doesn’t stir, no sound coming from him, and Yoongi almost forgets his presence, lost as he is in the melody rising from the instrument under his hands. He doesn’t know for how long he plays, the song winding down only when his fingers pain him. When he opens his eyes the light outside has dimmed, and he knows he will have to find his way back in the dark.

“Thank you.”

The voice is but a drawl and Yoongi looks back; the deity looks almost indolent, sprawled over the armchair, an unfair grace to each of his limbs. The fox blinks, heavy lids masking his troubling eyes, and another smile stretches his lips, this one small and secret.

“You should go. Soon it will be too dark to see.”

“What will you do?”

“I will remain here.”

The eyes are closed now, and Yoongi dares staring, every slope and every edges of that strange face engraving themselves in his mind.

“If I come back tomorrow, will you still be here?”

“I must, this is my place.”

“Even if no one comes to worship?”

“Won’t you?”

Only one eye opens, and Yoongi reels back, heat spreading in his face.

“I–  I guess I will.”

 A smile, the eye closing again, taking its light with it.

“Bring incense. I miss the smell.”

 

**5.**

The shrine is empty when Yoongi steps in the next day. No one answers, when he calls, but maybe this is how these things go, after all there is no manuals for strange deities dwelling in abandoned shrines. So he burns his incense on the empty altar, saying one of his small prayers, as always letting the atmosphere of the place seep into his being, soothe him, take him out of the flow of time if for a little while.

The ladder takes him upstairs to the waiting piano, and it’s almost with delight that he raises the fallboard, the soft light of early afternoon spilling over the keys. The song he plays is lighter than usual, something winding and playful, rising and falling like the breaths of a giant.

“This is nice, too.”

Yoongi startles, and the song ends on a false note. He turns and the god is there, draped over the armchair, languid and slow, silver hair falling into his strange eyes. Yoongi smiles despite himself, despite the fear at the back of his mind that warns him of this foreign being.

“Thank you, for the incense.”

“It isn’t much.”

“It is a lot.”

The deity tilts his head again, a playful smile on his lips, and Yoongi wonders if he’s the rabbit caught in the fox’s jaws.

“I liked the song. I take it you’re in a good mood.”

Yoongi knows he’s blushing, heat traveling on his skin and he dugs his head in his shoulders, laying back against the piano.

“I just. You know.”

“I do not. But I don’t care, either. Play something again.”

Yoongi complies, and soon another sound mixes in with his soaring notes, a soft hum in a crystalline voice, words barely pronounced but deeply felt, something wistful of sorrow and loss. And so Yoongi keeps playing, keeps playing for the forgotten god at his back, and again it is night when he has to stop, fingers sore and feelings raw.

The god has closed his eyes, head resting over arms folded on the armrest and he looks almost human, like this, open and vulnerable. Yoongi stares again, hesitating but a second before his low voice breaks the silence.

“What are you the god of?”

“I am not the god of anything, anymore.”

“But what were you, then?”

The god shifts, opening one eye and then the other, and the moon is dark in his orbits.

“Life and death, harvests and fertility. War, too, everything bad and everything good, little wishes and grand prayers. There was only me, in these lands. There was only me, and then, there was nothing.”

Yoongi falls silent as the god stares. But it is something else that the deity sees, someone else, worshippers and followers of all kind that used to pay him homage, burning incense and leaving offerings on his altar. 

“I’m only the god of you, now.”

“But I have no grand prayers nor little wishes. I just want a peaceful place, where I can play the piano.”

The god tilts his head, a slow smile creeping on his lips.

“Maybe it is enough. Will you come, tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

 

**6.**

Time seems to flow differently in the little shrine, lost far up the mountain. Yoongi always comes in the late afternoon, and the hours stretch around the notes from the piano, soft light falling onto the ivory keys, shining in his dark hair. He plays until his fingers protest, and it is always night when he stops. He turns back then, to the languid god draped around the old armchair. Sometimes the deity simply remains there, eyes closed, disquieting in his strange beauty. Sometimes he is curled up with a book, and if Yoongi asks, he will read aloud, clear voice ringing in the century old silence.

Yoongi’s escapes aren’t so aimless anymore, the pull always there, and the forest always guides him, at the light of the sun or the moon. It isn’t so difficult, anymore, when he knows there is a place for him, someone waiting, always asking the same question calling for the same answer.

“Will you come, tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

 

**7.**

But then, Yoongi does not come. Not on this day, nor the day after, and the god touches the cold ivory keys of the piano without making a sound. On the third day he lights the remaining incense and watches it burn through slow hours; on the fourth he sits on the gallery and stares at the path winding down the forest. On the fifth day, he curls up on the armchair and reads books after books, forgotten languages painting warm tales for his cold eyes. On the sixth day, he sleeps. On the seventh, there’s a stone fox sitting upon the altar, slightly withered, slightly cracked.

 

**8.**

The forest is different, when Yoongi steps in. Harsher, colder, and the ferns do not brush gently against his clothes, the sweet woodruffs do not bloom against his shins. I’m sorry, he tells them; I’m sorry I couldn’t come.

He fears that he will be led astray, that the path will not fork, that he won’t find the little towers of wishes and the shrine at the end of the winding path. But he does, and he’s almost running, heart spilling in his throat as he finally sees the slopes of the roof and the wooden columns, the stone bridge crossing the ravine. He steps carefully, then, heart beating painfully against his ribs.

The stone fox is the first thing he sees when he enters, resting upon its altar of ashes and dust. Yoongi calls but no one answers, and the stone is almost warm under the palm he presses against the statue. Please, he says; I’m sorry.

But there is no answer to be had, and so he bows his head, taking out of his pockets the apples he brought, piling them upon the altar, lightning a last baton of incense. And he prays, like he imagines they did all those years ago, when the moon was closer to the earth and filled the night sky with its chilly light.

He travels upstairs next, and the room is in disarray, books piled upon the armchair and over the floor. He can see him, the god, silver eyes riveted to lines of characters Yoongi cannot quite decipher, lost in fantasy worlds where he is not quite so alone. Against the far wall the piano stands fallboard up, waiting for a player that wouldn’t come. Yoongi sits at the bench, fingers fleeting lovingly above the keys. He takes a breath, and starts playing, softly, gently, wishing the song to reach over the void; and it’s a song of regrets and sorrow, of loneliness, too, and he hopes it will find its way.

Yoongi stops when the night falls, and he doesn’t feel like going back through the dark, he doesn’t. So he clears the armchair of its books, carefully putting them back on bending shelves, before curling up on the old furniture. It creaks under his weight, and the seat is cold, but it will have to do. And it does, Yoongi drifting off soon enough, sheltered by the old shrine.

There is nothing, in his dreams. Ugly memories of white corridors, blinding lights and a grief like no other. Words falling on his flayed ears, words he does not want to hear and running away was always easier, fake stars reflected in a dark sky, two moons staring back at him, two moons, and Yoongi wakes and he’s still alone.

There’s a song, in his head, words he knows well for having read them dozens of time, and so he sits at the piano, barely out of sleep, and he plays, singing for the first time.

 _I feel the grey cloud of consternation_  
_travel across my face, I begin thinking_  
_about the moon-lit past, how if you go back_  
_far enough you can imagine the breathtaking_  
_hugeness of the moon, prehistoric_  
_solar eclipses when the moon covered the sun_  
_so completely there was no corona, only_  
_a darkness we had no words for_

“Why does it always sound so sad?”

Yoongi jumps, a broken note fleeing from the piano, turning towards the voice almost violently in a near painful deja-vu.

“You’re awake!”

The god tilts his head, a smile on his defined lips as Yoongi gets up, stepping towards him almost unconsciously.

“The words found me. I know them. They’re in that book, aren’t they? The one you gifted me, once.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are.”

“I waited, but you wouldn’t come.”

“I’m sorry. I was sitting on a padded hospital bench, waiting for someone to die. And they did, and I was empty, and I couldn’t find the way back to myself for a long time.”

The god blinks, moves towards Yoongi, slow and beautiful, a little disquieting.

“I used to be able to help, I used to know the workings of life and death.”

“When the moon was breathtakingly huge?”

“When I was the darkness you had no words for.”

The strange eyes shine in the soft light of the morning and Yoongi extends a hand without thinking, yet the god grasps it and he is cold where their fingers touch.

“Will you play something again? Something for the departed souls.”

Yoongi nods and the god guides him back to the piano, letting go of his hand only to let him play. A melody rises, something wistful but gentle, something of love and sadness. Yoongi closes his eyes, a cold hand on his shoulder, and as his mind drifts a voice echoes, clear and pure.

 _And you as well must die, beloved dust,_  
_And all your beauty stand you in no stead;_  
_This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,_  
_This body of flame and steel…_

An intimate sorrow rides on the tailheads of those words, the kind Yoongi buried deep in the empty space below his heart, the kind that would rot and fester, nothing to bloom in its place. And so he listens to someone else’s words, drawing out of him well-known feelings, a cathartic ritual that leaves him strangely empty. When in turn the song dies he sits quietly, hands folded in his lap and eyes lost upon the ivory keys.

Behind him the god sighs softly, withdrawing his hand, and Yoongi listens to his retreating footsteps, to his body lowering in the armchair. It does not creak, and Yoongi looks back then, gazing upon the languorous god on his old throne. The dark eyes look back at him, two moons in a starless sky and Yoongi stares until his vision blurs.

“Is it true? Was the moon, was the moon closer, in ancient times?”

The god sighs, eyes lost as if looking through the ages.

“It filled the sky and we drew power from it, and it was beautiful. The nights were bright, bright enough for us to travel on paths of light, and we knew the world well, and the world knew us.”

“When you say us–”

“There used to be others, like me.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. Asleep, lost. The time of gods has passed; now you have too many words for the dark.”

Yoongi falls silent. A deep melancholy not entirely his own seeps into his bones, and he knows this feeling of loss; they are intimate friends. He stands, taking the few steps that separates him from the armchair and he sits at its foot, letting his head fall back against the seat, eyes closed.

“What will you do, now that I awoke you?”

Cold fingers tentatively touch him, tangling in his hair, gently playing with the too-long strands.

“I will remain here. This is my home.”

“But it is– it is so empty.”

“Not anymore. There’s music and the smell of incense, books and apples and clever conversation. It is enough.”

Yoongi smiles, craning his neck to look up at the god, at his fascinating eyes, two moons looking back and Yoongi wishes he could embrace the night.

 

**9.**

They never touch. Nothing more than a fleeting brush of hands, of fingers playing with loose strands. Yoongi remains at the piano and the god remains on his crumbling throne, and that’s it. But there is longing, Yoongi knows, he can feel it, something swirling in the dark eyes of the god.

Yoongi understands, as he grows older, while the god doesn’t change. It must have happened dozens of times, over and over again; he must have watched his most faithful followers age and return to the dust, as he alone remained, young and beautiful, forever. _And you as well must die, beloved dust_ , the god had sung, and maybe these words had been for him, for Yoongi, and it won’t matter, it won’t matter how beautiful he was, _how beloved above all else that dies_.

And so, on the way up, on the path of the wish towers, Yoongi builds his own. Patiently, he looks for the adequate stones, flat and polished, looks for the ideal place under the ferns. He sits down on the hard ground, stone by stone elevating his tower, engraving it with a great wish, something he knows he doesn’t deserve, and he addresses it to the forest, to the great white pines with their belt of cloths, to the ferns and the sweet woodruffs that brush against his shins, to the sky and the moon and the night.

 

**10.**

The god is angry. There is thunder in his eyes, flashes of silver and a great sorrow, and Yoongi stands dismayed at this frantic display of emotion.

“I felt it, I felt the shiver of the forest, and the mountain moved, and what did you do? What did you do to yourself?”

“I just made a wish. A small wish, not a grand prayer, a small wish on a tower made of stones.”

The god stops pacing and Yoongi wants to reach out, wants to smooth his disheveled hair, but there’s electricity coursing on the other’s skin and it will burn, he knows, it will burn if he touches him.

“What did you wish for?”

The voice is calm, tentative, and the god is scared, Yoongi understands.

“I wished I could stay here. I wished I could stay with you. There’s a thousand lonely years hiding in the ground, and I wished I could erase them.”

Yoongi feels almost shy then, and his gaze falls to the floor, to his tired shoes and the dirty hem of his jeans.

“You– you’re a fool.”

The quaint insult makes Yoongi laughs in spite of the situation and he looks up, expecting the god to lash out again. But there is something soft in the deity’s face, looking amongst foreign there, and the god sighs, sitting down on the armchair, shaking his head.

“I’ll never figure out humans.”

“That’s okay, we barely figure ourselves out in the first place.”

“Do you realize you stuck yourself here with me? That if you go, time will start flowing for you again, that you will age and you will die like you should have?”

“Yeah. It’s okay. I like it better here anyway. You said it yourself. There’s music and the smell of incense, books and apples and clever conversation, and it is enough.”

“Well, there will be no more incense and no more apples since no one can go fetch them for us anymore.”

Yoongi bites his lips to prevent another laugh from escaping. The god looks almost pouty, and it’s so mundane, memories of familial disputes resurfacing, and he can’t help the pang of nostalgia stirring in his chest. But what remained of his family faded away in a barren sick room until nothing was left and Yoongi could never resigned himself to it, he could never, rage and sorrow storming in his mind until he lost himself, too. And then, he found the shrine.

He takes a few steps, sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the armchair, eyes raised to the god’s face, and he will never get used to it, he will never get used to his unsettling beauty, to the night contained in his foreign eyes.

“Maybe we can advertise?”

The ghost of a smile touches the god’s lips but he remains silent. Ever so slowly, in his customary graceful way, he lifts a finger, caressing Yoongi’s face. He traces the ridges of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the softness of his lips, as Yoongi closes his eyes and lets a sigh escape.

“Will you not regret it?”

A slow shake of his head and Yoongi scoots closer, the god framing his face with both hands.

“I won’t. I am at peace, here, like I never was in the world of men. It took away from me all that I loved, and I can’t... I couldn’t go on, and I kept running away, and the forest led me here, and I think this is my place, too.”

The deity nods, slowly, letting his hands fall away, and Yoongi misses them instantly. The god is still leaning down towards him, though; Yoongi pushes himself forward, grabbing at his wrists. There’s a hint of surprise on the deity’s face but he doesn’t reel back, and so Yoongi leans forward still, until he’s a breath away, until there’s nothing left between them and their lips meet, softly; the god is cold, so cold, but Yoongi doesn’t mind, it seems that he waited years for this to happen.

There’s a hand at the back of his neck, pulling gently on the short hair there, and a noise makes its way out of his throat, wanting, almost whiny; urgency seeps into the kiss and the hands fall to his waist, grabbing and pulling, dragging him up, up, up until he’s flushed against a slim body. His mouth falls open, to catch a breath and more, more, more of everything, nerves afire as he tangles his hands in the god’s silvery hair, bringing him impossibly closer still, tracing the edges of his lips with the tip of his tongue and he falls fast, too fast; there’s a growl somewhere that doesn’t come from him as he’s pushed back against a wall, against the crumbling shelves full of books, and the mouth against his grows hungrier, and he lets it, he lets it, lets the cold hands slip under his shirt and ghost over the soft skin of his sides, lets himself be devoured by a darkness he has no words for.

 

**11.**

They sit on the gallery, Yoongi lazily stretching, head pillowed on the god’s thigh. Autumn dyed the forest in shades of red and yellow, sparing the white pines who stand evergreen under the fall sky. It fits, Yoongi thinks, neither of them subjected to the changes of time.  

“You need a name.”

“What?”

“A name. You need one.”

The fingers tracing abstract patterns on his brow still, a palm falling flat against his hair.

“Why?”

“So I can call you.”

“There is no one else, here, what’s the use?”

“Just. Everyone has a name.”

“Not me. I have many.”

Yoongi sighs, tipping his head back to look up at the deity.

“Sansin isn’t a name, it’s a denomination. Neither is gunungsin, or gumiho, or–”

“Kihyun.”

“What?”

“A long time ago, my name was Kihyun.”

Yoongi sits up, shifts until he faces the god, cross-legged on the old wood of the porch. Kihyun, as it is his name, has a faraway gaze – shifting through hundreds of years of memories, dredged up by a simple word.

“It sounds… it sounds so human.”

A slow smile spreads on Kihyun’s lips, brought back to the present by this well-loved voice.

“Does it not fit me?”

Yoongi stares, replacing his gaze with his touch as he traces the god’s face with the tip of his finger. Kihyun closes his eyes, and Yoongi feels his heart catch between his ribs. The god could be made of soft clay, something out of this world, birthed by the stone and the old wood, something tired and knowing, something unbearably lonely. Yoongi begins to think about the moon-lit past, about the breathtaking hugeness of the moon, prehistoric solar eclipses covering the sun, and he finds it is possible to miss something you never witnessed.

But the eyes open and it is there, shining silver, two moons staring back at him, huge in a starless sky, and Yoongi knows love when he sees it.

“It does fit you. It’s pretty. I like it.”

A low hum, the god tipping forward until he’s close enough to kiss, and Yoongi welcomes him in the circle of his being, night falling over earth, a total eclipse of the sun.

 

 

 

 

(They do get apples again. Yoongi figures he can age the three hours it will take him to trek back down the mountain, and back up again. He wonders if you can grow an orchard in a pine forest.

Kihyun tells him he should save his time for something better. Yoongi kisses him and he tastes like apples, and there’s nothing better, he says, as Kihyun pushes him back towards the piano, a chaos of sound echoing as he falls on the ivory keys.)

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Poems are:  
> "Facts about the moon" by Dorianne Laux  
> "And you as well must die, beloved dust" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
> 
> Also the line "There’s a thousand lonely years hiding in the ground" is from Syd Matters' "Hi Life" cause I was listening to it when I wrote that scene.


End file.
